


Letters from the Wasteland

by glim



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin presses his forehead to Arthur's and breathes quietly for a few moments. "I've dreamt about you for a thousand years," he says and Arthur nods in reply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters from the Wasteland

_i. {the agony in stony places}_

Merlin dreams.

He dreams of sand and stars, of apples and islands, of the poisoned chalice and the mortal dart, of the tree whose limbs grew around him before they turned to stone and clasped him in an unending lover's embrace.

Magic sparks at the edge of his senses, gold and glowing as it always has, and before he can grasp it, fades into the endless swirl of time.

Time is a dream for Merlin now, too. He can remember it, in a way that memory is also a dream, and can feel it flowing around him, happening in ways he cannot measure. Sometimes he dreams his mother will come for him, to rescue him like she always did when he tripped and fell into ditches and puddles that were deeper than they looked to his curious eyes. Then, for a moment, he's aware that that time has passed, and the dream of lost comfort and affection ends.

And he dreams of Arthur. Always of Arthur. Arthur who loved Camelot, loved Gwen, loved Lancelot, loved _Merlin_, loved them all so much that in the end it was like his heart burst for them. He would have died for them all, too, if he could have, if the fates had not tangled their threads around him so tightly and pulled him back into their care before death could claim him.

He dreams and re-dreams their first moment and in every time and place he dreams it, that moment always plays out the same way. The great stone walls of the castle, the hot sun on his back, Arthur's warm breath against his neck and the painful twist of his arms pinned behind his back. The painful twist of his heart each time the dream fades into the next moment, and then the next, and the spin of moment after moment until only they dwindle down to the last of their moments together.

With the sadness that accompanies the inability to forget, he dreams their last moments, the ones they spent apart, helpless. He's dreamt it before, numerous times, as a small child so scared of the dark places and so frightened for the blond boy he couldn't reach; dreamt it as he slept in Arthur's bed, his fingers moving of their own accord to tangle in Arthur's hair and draw his head to Merlin's chest; dreamt it during those strange, surreal moments, his fingers stiff and clumsy the final time he prepared Arthur for battle.

It didn't feel like glory, it felt like loss, betrayal, infinite sadness, echoing across all Albion. The flagstones of the courtyard at Camelot rang with the sound and the sky glowed gold for Arthur before Merlin was sealed in stone, quick.

Merlin dreams and dreams of the lives he's had and never had and the one he'll have again while he waits for the moment when stone will turn to water and dissolve all around him, falling in one smooth moment like time from his limbs.

_ii. {all of Diamond perfect pure and cleene}_

"Come _on_, Merlin. We don't have all afternoon. If you're not ready in two minutes, I'm leaving without you."

Sleep-warm and drowsy, Merlin rubs both hands over his face and stumbles after Arthur. There had been rumors that a mage and his consort had been waylaying travelers and even knights at the edge of the forest. A morning spent traversing the perimeter of the forest had yielded nothing. By mid-afternoon, he and Arthur had stopped to share bread, fruit, and wine.

Maybe it was the wine, Merlin thinks, and rubs at his face again.

Arthur glances at Merlin over his shoulder with a frown. "What's wrong?"

Merlin shrugs in reply and scrubs at his eyes. It's like he didn't even sleep; he feels less rested than he did before dropping off. Though, he knows he must've slept in order to have dreamed and he can recall perfectly the moment of waking, Arthur's boot prodding him sharply in the side. "I had a dream."

"What. Oh." Arthur stills and he looks worried, almost scared, and Merlin can see something flicker in his eyes.

Memory. No, no, that's the flicker in Merlin's own mind, more than a dream, a memory, carried back through sleep from years that have not yet passed.

"I dreamed about you."

"Really?" Something different flickers in Arthur's eyes, then fades when Merlin shakes his head.

"Not that kind of dream."

"Come on, then. What sort?"

"I don't know." Merlin rubs a hand through his hair, musses it further, and tries to flatten it when Arthur frowns. "You had a shield."

"Your dreams aren't very interesting, are they?"

"Nope. Not at all. Especially the ones about you."

Except, of course, Merlin's dreams about Arthur are all too interesting. The ones where they touch and kiss and Arthur's hands and mouth move over his body with such warmth and intensity. The ones where Merlin thinks he's woken up in Arthur's arms, the morning light spilling over their bodies and Arthur's face still and peaceful until Merlin kisses him.

Those dreams are definitely interesting. Arthur doesn't need to know about them.

Not yet.

Nor does he need to know about this dream and about how Merlin saw him stand in this very same forest, at once inexplicably alien and familiar, a collision of youth and ancient power. He bore an impossibly beautiful shield, diamond-bright, the story of Camelot etched into its surface. He seemed the sum of knightly virtue, and, somehow still _Arthur_. His Arthur. Imperfect, pratly, proud; generous, courageous, magnanimous.

Lonely, too, and Merlin worries that loneliness is the price Arthur will have to pay to become the knight with the adamantine shield on some neverending quest to become the king that Camelot needs.

The further they get from the forest, the more Merlin's mind clears, though the dream lingers. Much to Arthur's annoyance, he spends the rest of the way home chatting to him and staying close enough to trip over his own and Arthur's feet more than once.

_iii. {incarcerated lovesick fools}_

The problem isn't and has never been that Arthur doesn't know, but that he's _always_ known. Not the kind of knowledge he can articulate, but the sort that feels as if it's etched into his skin and the beat of his heart.

He knows because his body knows what only his sleeping mind has come to realize.

When Arthur dreams, he dreams of the island of mists and the great oak tree turned to stone, of the clash of arms and the quiet of a small, cool, dusty room full of books, boxes, and hidden comfort. He dreams of power, and how it seems to slip away so quickly, how it flashes like the point of a sword in sunlight, gold and diamond-bright, and then is buried under water, rock, and ground a moment later.

And he dreams of Merlin. Merlin, with whom he slept once at university after getting incredibly, stupidly drunk. With whom he fought, and up until this day, Arthur doesn't remember that fight, but remembers the years of hurt silence that followed it. Merlin, who, in his dreams, has the same intense eyes, soft lips, and unfortunate ears; who touches him like he needs to be protected; who makes love to him readily.

Who promised him, a long lifetime ago, that he would know, that Arthur would realize when the time had come and would recognize Merlin once more.

For years, they dance around each other, almost friends, almost mentioning the irresistible pull that draws them together, until something _snaps_, then dissolves, inside Arthur. Outside, it's early enough to be morning but still dark enough to be night and the sun and stars are starting to collide. Suddenly, Arthur is awake, running, alive and desperate because now he _knows_ and can never not know that the Merlin who makes him awkward, uncertain, and impatient is _Merlin_.

It's a keen, double-edged awareness now, the knowledge who Merlin was and _is_ and what he will always be to Arthur. Sorcerer, lover, quite possibly the most powerful man Arthur will ever, in any incarnation, know.

Unfortunately, he's also the biggest _idiot_ Arthur's ever met for letting Arthur not say anything for so many years. Or for not saying anything himself. It doesn't matter which – Arthur's ready not to listen to the silence between them any more.

Rumpled and pale from sleep, Merlin stands at the already-open door to his flat when Arthur arrives. He smiles the same crooked smile Arthur can now remember having seen so many times and right before Arthur reaches for his hand, he offers it. Arthur traces two fingers from the pulse-point at Merlin's wrist, over his palm, down to the tips of Merlin's fingers and feels the gold-glow-_spark_ of magic under Merlin's skin.

"Merlin, I _know_. I've known ever since the day we met."

Merlin presses his forehead to Arthur's and breathes quietly for a few moments. "I've dreamt about you for a thousand years," he says and Arthur nods in reply.

_iv. {the ancient heavenly connection}_

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Merlin traces the line of Arthur's jaw. Their shoulders touch and legs brush against each other, warm skin against warm skin, and Merlin's heart is beating so fast, so loudly in his chest. "What do you remember?"

"This." That's all Arthur says. The whole evening, from the first brush of his fingertips against Merlin's chest to the last soft sigh he gives before falling asleep, he only utters one word.

_This_.

It encompasses lifetimes of memories and dreams of memories that seem to conjure themselves without any magical aid.

Arthur kisses Merlin, kisses his eyelids and the tip of his nose, nuzzles the curve of his ear and smiles when Merlin shivers, kisses his lips, gentle as his one, whispered word, then as firm as stone and flowing water. He waits until Merlin slips his tongue between Arthur's lips to deepen the kiss and then it's like they can't stop kissing, like they never stopped. His hands remember all the places Merlin likes to be touched and Arthur maps them out with well-worn care, finding the scarred and _aching_ places that time could not ease.

Arthur makes love to him in all the impossible places, in Camelot, in Avalon, in a London that is both past and future, on the summer-warm dirt floor of his Mum's home, in the cool, green forest of their youth. They could have lived through centuries like this, bodies and destinies entwined, and maybe they have. Maybe all the dreams Merlin hasn't had are of those years that somehow passed by with the strange blur of the turning world.

Before they come together, Merlin moves his hands over Arthur's body, rediscovering all that was once his and will be again – the taste of Arthur's skin under his tongue, the scent of his hair, the angle of his hip and the breadth of his shoulders. He laughs at the sweep of Merlin's fingers over his stomach, the sound more arousal than amusement; Arthur grabs Merlin's hand and brings to his mouth, then guides it to trace damp paths down his body.

Then, Merlin pleads and Arthur laughs again, so deep, so beautiful, and he makes Merlin wait until Arthur's decided they've finished kissing, touching, and Arthur has remembered every inch of Merlin's body. Like he hasn't waited long enough, helpless against the passage of time, and now he's helpless against the way Arthur keeps licking and teasing and reminding him of how _long_ it's been.

Finally, Arthur listens, and he kisses Merlin once more on the mouth, the shoulder, the stomach, and then, at last, they are _together_. Merlin is shaking, because he's wanted Arthur inside him so badly, wanted the past and present and future to fuse, and wanted Arthur to gasp and tremble for him.

His body so taut it hurts, Merlin gasps and feels his arousal swell to such a point that when he comes, he does so with a shout and light spills around them.

_v. {our bravery wasted and our shame} _

"Here?" Arthur looks incredulous. "Are you certain? It's like the wasteland out here."

"_Here_." Merlin toes the grass with one foot and throws his head back to feel the wind ruffle through his hair. The land remembers him and speaks to him in silent ways that Arthur cannot hear. "Let me show you."

"How? I know you can. Just…"

Merlin smiles at the little frown line between Arthur's eyes. "Pretend it's a dream."

Arthur's hand rests at the small of his back, tentative at first, then certain and warm and all Merlin has to do is lean in close to him. He touches Arthur, raises one hand, and thinks: home.

And, suddenly, time and space slip away, and Camelot is all around them, as bright and vivid as it was during those first moments when Merlin walked through the castle gates. But it's not just the Camelot of his first days there; it's the Camelot of all the days they both spent there. Like the land remembers Merlin, the flagstones and the castle walls remember Arthur and it's his energy that seems to bring light and life to the memories around them.

Here, the whole story of the things that Arthur built and lost plays out, his bravest moments and his most vulnerable, the kingdoms and friendships, time bending with their footsteps.

Arthur's hand in his, Merlin walks them all the way up to the ramparts.

"I can see everything." Arthur turns to him, his voice full of wonder and sadness, and gazes back out across the castle and surrounding country. "There – where you twisted your ankle and dropped my dagger in the mud. It took us forever to get back home."

"That's what you remember?" It's Merlin's turn to be incredulous. "Out of everything that happened, you remember that. Thanks."

"It was a good afternoon. Injury aside," Arthur adds and reaches out to rest his hand on Merlin's arm. "It was sunny, and we had fruit and wine for lunch, and you spent the whole walk back to the castle leaning against me. Your hair… it smelled like grass and warm dirt, because you fell asleep after we ate. You had a dream…"

"About what?"

Arthur shrugs. "You never told me."

Smiling, Merlin looks down at Arthur's hand, then follows Arthur's gaze from the castle to the forest. "It was about _you_."

"I think it was."

*

Merlin wakes up, his head in Arthur's lap, and sees the sun and sky, and Arthur's eyes full of quiet laughter.

"You're still here?"

"Of course I am. Do you really think I'd leave without you?"

Sitting up, Merlin shakes his head. He feels warm and fuzzy from having fallen asleep in the afternoon sunlight. Arthur feels even warmer next to him and, for a second, the sun catches his eyes and turns them the cleanest, purest, most impossible crystal blue.

"Are you ready?"

Arthur nods, holds out his hand to help Merlin up and the world spins around them once more.


End file.
